“Good gracious! How very odd! What can Miss Brotherton have to say to Martha? Martha! of all people in the world. She is not ill, Crompton, is she?” said Miss Arabella.
“Oh! dear no, ma’am — at least she don’t look so. She seemed in a great hurry, however, for me to take the card.”
“Well, take it then,” cried Miss Harriet, impatiently, “and make haste, or I shall never get my ringlets done: they take such a time. Do give her the card, Arabella. What good is there in spelling it over a dozen times? I dare say she only wants to cross-question her about Augustus, and what he’s going to act. So take the card, Crompton, and run with it to Martha as fast as you can.”
Crompton and the card found Martha sitting still undressed in the obscure little room allotted to her in the children’s wing. She was deep in the pages of a new romance, and being, if possible, more certain than usual that her presence would not be wanted, had made up her mind to enjoy herself till the time arrived for the commencement of the play, when it was her purpose to join the large party invited, in their progress from the drawing-room to the theatre.
On receiving Miss Brotherton’s card, however, she hastily resumed the business of her toilet; for though the summons was as unintelligible to her as to her sisters, she felt, at least, an equal desire that it should be civilly complied with. It never took long to make poor Martha as smart as she ever thought it necessary to be, and in a very few minutes she joined Miss Brotherton in the drawing-room.
“This is very kind of you, Miss Martha. I hope I have not hurried you?” said the heiress, taking her hand so kindly, that the shy girl could not but feel encouraged to speak to her with rather more confidence than usual.
“Why are you not going to take a part?” was the next question.
“I take a part! Oh! Miss Brotherton what should I make of acting?” said Martha, laughing and blushing, in reply.
“Nay I think you are very right, Martha. I assure you nothing could have persuaded me to have made the attempt. But I thought that if you did not play, you would perhaps have the kindness to take charge of me, and let me sit by you; for unless I have somebody to tell me what it all means I shall be horribly puzzled.”
“I will tell you every thing I can,” replied Martha, good-humouredly. “But I don’t think I understand much about it myself.”
“What sort of a little boy is it that your papa has been so kind to? Every body is talking about it, and Lady Clarissa says there is something quite sublime in what he is going to do for him. But I suppose Sir Matthew must have remarked some qualities particularly amiable and good in the child, or he would not distinguish him so remarkably from all others of the same class.”
“You have heard the story of his saving Lady Clarissa Shrimpton from the cow that was going to toss her, have you not, Miss Brotherton?”
“Yes, my dear, I heard all that, you know, the morning I was here; — though, by the by, you were not in the room, I remember. But there must be something more in it than that. Do tell me all you know.”
“Indeed I don’t know any thing more,” said Martha.
“What sort of a child is it?”
“A very nice little fellow indeed, and I think if I had been papa I should have done the same thing myself.”
“Really! Then you do think this child is something out of the common way, I suppose? Pray tell me, dear Martha, will you, if you hear much about the people that work in the factories? and the children in particular?”
“No, indeed, Miss Brotherton, I know nothing in the world about them; except that I sometimes hear papa say that they are all very idle and ungrateful,” replied Martha.
“I have been told that they are a very wretched set of people. But, perhaps, they cannot help it, Martha?” returned Mary.
“I do not know how that can be, Miss Brotherton; every body can help being idle, and every body can help being ungrateful, I should think.”
“But it seems that they all Jive together, and make one another worse; and, in that case, the children are very much to be pitied; for, poor little things, they cannot help themselves. What makes you think this little boy is a nice child? Have you ever talked to him much?”
“Yes, a good deal; but papa has been taking him about to a great many houses; and besides, he has been occupied very much in learning his part, for Duo, who was teaching him, said that he could hardly read at all. So I have been trying to help him, and he is very quick. But I like him, too, because he appears so fond of his mother and brother. He cares for nothing that can be given him, unless he can take some of it to them.”
“And does your papa let him do so?”
“Oh! yes, every day.”
“That is very kind. Then I suppose the little fellow is superlatively happy?”
“I don’t know,” replied Martha, with a slight shake of the head.
“It is very strange if he be not,” observed Miss Brotherton. “If he were kept from his mother I could easily understand that he might be very miserable, notwithstanding the great good luck that has befallen him; but if he is permitted to see her constantly, I can’t imagine what he can want more.”
“I don’t know,” again replied Martha.
The expected guests began now rapidly to assemble, and refreshments were handed round previous to their being conducted to the room prepared for the evening’s amusement. “Don’t forsake, me, dear Martha!” whispered Miss Brotherton, “I am not very intimate with any of these ladies and gentlemen, and I shall not enjoy the evening’s amusement, unless I am seated next you.”
Martha felt a good deal surprised at the compliment, but readily agreed to the proposal; and in a few minutes, Lady Dowling, who was any thing rather than pleased by the whole affair, gave the assembled party to understand that the time fixed for their entering the theatre arrived.
On tiptoe with curiosity, and eager beyond measure, to see what Lady Clarissa Shrimpton, Mr. Osmond Norval, and “all the Dowlings” would look like on the stage, the numerous company almost ran over one another in the vehement zeal with which they prepared to obey her.
Of course no expense had been spared in fitting up the apartment allotted to the purpose, in form and style as like as might be to a theatre; and, thanks to the taste and ingenuity of the little French governess, the thing had been not only expensively, but well done. The space railed in for the orchestra very conveniently divided the company from the actors; and, when the curtain drew up, the well-lighted stage exhibited just such a carpeted, draperied, mirrored, and flower-adorned arena, as well-dressed amateur ladies and gentlemen delighted to appear in.
The very sight of the stage elicited a shout of applause; and when Mr. Osmond Norval, habited at all points according to the most accredited draped portraits of Apollo, came forth from behind the sky-blue silken hangings which formed the coulisses, all the ladies began clapping till their little palms and fingers tingled with the unwonted exercise.
The young poet certainly looked very handsome; and not the less so because he knew that besides Miss Brotherton’s eyes, which he was certain must be fixed upon him (though he could not distinguish her in the obscure corner in which she had chosen to place herself beside Martha), those of Miss Arabella and Miss Harriet Dowling (both estimated at twenty thousand pounds), were fixed upon him too. Not to mention the speaking orbs of Lady Clarissa Shrimpton, whose nobility, he had little doubt, might be won to smile upon and endow him with all the little earthly goods she had, could he make up his mind to believe that he could do no better.
All this flattered, excited, and inspired him most becomingly; and as he stood with one silken leg slightly advanced, and so firmly planted as to require only the toe of its fellow to support him from behind, with a lyre suspended round his neck, and a wreath of bay-leaves mixing with the dark curls upon his brow, at least two dozen young ladies in the manufacturing interest declared to their secret souls that they never could hope to see another like him.
Having first recited the pretty sonn
et before mentioned, in which he modestly hinted at more points of resemblance than one between himself and Milton, he suddenly changed his hand, and having, as he expressed it to Lady Clarissa, “gleaned with the hand of a master,” he spoke the following lines, which in the copies printed for private circulation, were headed
“SHAKSPERIAN PROLOGUE.
“Open your ears! For which of you will stop
The seat of hearing, when loud rumour speaks?
I, from the orient to the drooping west,
Making the wind my post-horse, will unfold
The act performed by virtuous Dowling here.
Oh! for a muse of fire that should ascend
The brightest heaven of description!
Then should the noble Dowling, like himself
Assume the form of mercy; and, at his heels,
Leashed in like hounds, should famine, pain, and labour,
Crouch, all subdued!” &c. &c.
The applause which followed this lasted so long, that the performers began to fear there would not be time enough left for the piece. But by degrees the tumult subsided, Apollo was permitted to retire, and the business of the scene began.
There was something more nearly approaching a balance of power at Dowling Lodge than is often to be found in the domestic arrangements of gentlemen and their wives — for, though it may be a very doubtful point, whether man or wife most frequently get the mastery, it but rarely happens that the matter long remains unsettled. At Dowling Lodge, however, there was a beautiful alternation of power, which the measured movement of the engine in their factories, first sending up one side, and then the other, might, perhaps, have suggested. If matters came to a downright quarrel, however, Sir Matthew was sure to be the conqueror; for her ladyship got frightened, and gave in; but when any differences of opinion arose on points of no great importance, the lady’s murmurings and mutterings were equally sure to be victorious, and Sir Matthew let her have her way, merely because, like the organ-grinder, “he knew the wally of peace and quiet.”
On the subject of the private theatricals, there was, most decidedly, a difference of opinion between the heads of the Dowling family, and some rough skirmishing might have ensued, had not Mademoiselle Beaujoie hinted to her good friend, Sir Matthew, that if they could introduce a scene or two, where all the dear little children could be shown off, Lady Dowling’s objections would probably give way. The experiment was made, and answered completely; on condition, that “Gratitude and Goodness” should open and close with scenes in which the whole family should appear in fancy dresses, and be grouped by the dancing-master in the most graceful attitudes he could invent, Lady Dowling withdrew her opposition. As soon, therefore, as Apollo had retired from the front of the stage, no less than sixteen male and female Dowlings rushed forth from the silken hangings, and formed themselves, after some little confusion, into a tableau, declared, on all sides, to be of unrivalled beauty. Again bravoes and clapping of hands announced the delight of the spectators; and, when this was calmed, some very pompous verses gave notice that this display of youthful grace and beauty, was on occasion of a rustic fête, in which the dramatis personae were to amuse themselves al fresco Then entered the Lady Clarissa; but, for some good reason or other, it had been decided, between the knight and herself, that she should enter alone: and from a most poetical scream of terror, soon uttered by her ladyship, it became evident that a dragon, or a cow, or some other dreadful animal had been pursuing her. Again and again, with most picturesque effect, she looked behind her towards the blue silk coulisses, from whence she had issued, till, at length, the feelings of the audience were worked up to a wonderful pitch, by her ejaculating —
“It comes! It comes!”
This was little Michael’s cue; and, as soon as the words were spoken, he entered from the opposite side, holding a ragged cap on high, and dressed, in all respects, precisely as he had been on the memorable night of Lady Clarissa’s vaccine adventure.
In dumb show the lady indicated the direction from whence the dreaded monster would approach; and the most energetic and unsparing action of the limbs and person secured the audience, as well as her deliverer, from any possible mistake on the subject. Michael, too, performed his part with great spirit, exaggerating, as he had been commanded, by every possible means, the manœuvres necessary for turning the front of a cow.
To this scene, too, the audience gave loud applause, and in the midst of it entered Sir Matthew, who was, of course, greeted by bravoes, “long drawn out,” till the ladies and gentlemen having nearly deafened one another, ceased at last, and listened to the beautiful explanation which followed.
First the company were made to comprehend that the danger was over, for the well-taught Michael turned about, and manfully facing the audience, pronounced distinctly
“The beast is gone!”
Then Sir Matthew, after bowing respectfully to the lady, said,
“Permit me, madam, to express my joy,
That you’ve been saved by this good little boy.”
It was, however, uttered in an accent of such temperate and measured feeling, that not even Lady Dowling saw any thing very particular in it. A precaution by the way, which had been suggested by the gentlemen during the frequent rehearsals.
Lady Clarissa’s acting then became animated indeed; for the poet, following her instructions, had composed for her in smooth, yet startling rhymes, about thirty lines of the most fervent thanksgiving, in which, now laying one hand on the head of the ragged child, now clasping both together in the eagerness of her address to Sir Matthew, and now gracefully extending both arms towards the audience, as if to make them sharers in her generous emotions, she produced an effect more easily imagined than described.
The speech which followed from Sir Matthew was very noble, and at once let the audience into all the secret purposes of his benevolent heart. The by-play of Michael during this scene had been prepared for by his benefactor with particular care, but somehow or other the boy was not apt in catching the knight’s idea; for instead of the tender but joyous smile with which he had been instructed to look up into the face of his munificent patron, his countenance expressed nothing but terror.
“That little fellow does not look happy, Martha,” whispered Miss Brotherton.
“Oh no! he looks very frightened,” replied Martha, “but that is very natural, is it not, considering the novelty of his situation?”
“I don’t know,” said the heiress.
The piece went on to exhibit the beautiful manner in which this adoption of a ragged factory-boy into the bosom of the Dowling family had been hailed by all of them as an especial grace from heaven, on account of the opportunity it afforded for relieving the overflowing generosity of their hearts. Sir Matthew, while looking round upon his sixteen full-dressed offspring, who were now again skilfully grouped upon the stage, was made to exclaim with clasped hands, and an almost sobbing excess of emotion,
“The widow and the orphan are more dear,
To their young hearts, than million pounds a year!”
Every body was touched, and again the applause was deafening.
Then came a very striking scene indeed. Michael appeared superbly dressed, and on each side of him was a middling-sized Miss Dowling, holding lightly and gracefully each a little basket, from under the covers of which peeped out grapes and peaches on the one side, and something that had the semblance of a flask of wine on the other.
Then spoke the fair-haired Louisa.
“Dear little boy, this basket’s all your own,
’Tis to reward the courage you have shown.”
And then Miss Charlotte.
“So is this too, my pretty little boy,
We hope ‘twill give your poor old mother joy.”
And when Michael, having received a basket in each hand, appeared preparing to depart, the two young ladies exclaimed together,
“’Tis papa sends it, who’s so very kind,
How to do good,
is all he seeks to find!”
Upon this, Michael turned round again towards the audience, and stood stock still. It was quite evident that he had some speech to make which he had apparently forgotten, for it was impossible for any child to look more completely distressed and at a loss.
At length it became pretty evident that, in lieu of all other performance, the poor boy was going to cry; and some ingenious persons doubted whether it might not be in his part to do so; but this idea was speedily removed by the very matter-of-fact pokes and nudges which the two young ladies bestowed upon him. In addition to this it seemed as if the little fellow caught some stimulating sounds from the coulisses, for he cast more than one furtive glance in that direction, and at length, with what was evidently a great effort, he stammered out,
“My mother’s dear, and so’s my brother too,
But dearer still are your papa and you.
His charity’s so great, his heart so good,
He gives the naked clothes; the hungry food;
And I for — one — will, — day — and night — in prayer,
Ask blessings — for — him — and — his — worth declare.”
The two last lines were so completely choked by the tears, which all his efforts could not suffice to restrain, that they were perfectly unintelligible to the audience.
“Is all that vehemence of weeping a part of Mr. Norval’s composition?” inquired Miss Brotherton in a whisper to Martha.
“Upon my word I don’t know: but I should think not,” was the reply.
“Martha!” said the heiress, very earnestly, “that child is suffering from an agony of terror.”
“I should hope not,” said Martha, in a voice that somewhat faltered.
“Do you know any thing about this boy?” pursued Miss Brotherton, continuing her whispering. “Do you know any thing about the mother he talks of?”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 178
